


Wherever You Are

by cmk



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 22:30:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmk/pseuds/cmk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I always thought that having cancer was the worst thing that could happen to someone, but it's not. Feelings are. Emotions are. Relationships are. </p><p>Because like cancer, you don't get to tell emotions or feelings when they're allowed to come and when they're not. You don't get to say, "get out of my head, you destructive creatons." You have no choice but to let it over take you, and you don't get to control who is harmed in the process.</p><p>So, I guess in a way, feelings and cancer are kind of the same thing: they both make you sick, they both come without warning, and they both make you wish you had never been born at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The cancer ward at Gracelyn Memorial Hospital had become a better home for me than my own home proved to be. Not because I enjoyed being there; no, it was hardly that. It was the people. There is something devastatingly beautiful about people who are tipping on the edge of death; they don't sugar coat their thoughts, they don't try and hide what they're feeling - they just are, because that's all they have time for. Harry Styles had my particular attention.  
   
There was a time when I had found myself lain in the beds of what I had assumed to be the final home for my cancer-ridden body. I was tipping on the edge of death, much like the aforementioned. I even thought I had seen what they call "the light" at one point. It proved to be just the light of the hospital, because just as I told myself I was ready to go, my body disagreed and fought back in ways I didn't even deem possible. I guess, as my father says, it wasn't my time to go; although it sure felt that way.  
   
At the time I was pissed. I had sat in the hospital bed for hours, mentally talking myself up for death. Then, when I finally thought I was ready to go, every other part of my being decided to finally show up. I should have been grateful, and I think I am, but sometimes, I just wish that I had gone right then and there.  
   
In the third month of my immaculate remission, I relapsed. I woke in the middle of the night with a painstakingly, piercing chest pain, and I was certain right then that I was going to die. But yet, here I am still. Basically, the tumor in my liver that all the super smart doctors thought was gone, returned. And it returned with a vengeance. I spent the next year going through therapy and chemo, until they named me cancer free yet again. How nice.  
   
It was during this relapse that I became acquainted with Harry Styles. Harry "knocks-the-breath-out-of-my-already-sick-lungs-and-doesn't-know-he's-doing-it" Styles.  
   
I didn't say anything to him for the first twelve sessions of my chemo. He knew I was watching him though, I know he did. But he was too nice to say anything about it.  
   
I watched the way that he winced sometimes as the poison dripped into his body, ironically trying to fix him by making him sick. I watched and counted how many times he blinked in the small amount of time we sat in that room together, his eyelashes brushing his face heavily and gracefully until they opened again. I watched the way he bit the inside of his cheek as he waited for the drug to take it's course, and I watched as he stared at the needle, tracing the small bruise it had left around the area of entry.  
   
All of these things kept my mind off of the drug that was simultaneously flooding its way into my system, drowning me in a feeble attempt to rid my body of the thing that was slowly killing me from the inside out.  
   
It wasn't until my thirteenth session of chemo that I spoke to him. Well, spoke is a strong word. When I say spoke, I mean that I had the sudden urge to throw up, so my face turned a strange color I'm sure, and he noticed. He saw me cover my mouth and search hastily for a garbage can or a bag - which, by the way, should be, like, something that chemotherapy patients NEVER run out of - as my stomach turned in ways that I just couldn't stomach any longer.  
   
I tried my best to keep the vomit contained, but, let's face; it's vomit. He tried to move his foot slightly so I wouldn't spew all over it, but it wasn't any use; I did.  
   
Yep. I vomited right on him. He handed me a wipe when I was done, and I took it without saying a word. I wiped my mouth and sat in silence, staring at the dirty tile floor for the rest of my session.  
   
I thought that cancer was the one thing in the world that could make me want to die, but I was wrong: vomiting on Harry Styles' shoe did, too.


	2. The Time I Threw Up on Harry Styles' Shoe... Twice

"How are you?" He asked me when the nurses came and relieved us of the wires and holes in our bodies. I didn't say a word. After throwing up on his shoe, I was too moritified to ever look at his face again. 

I let the nurse perform her doctoral duties of unhooking, unplugging, and de-chemoing my weak and fragile body. As she helped me to my feet, I felt another familiar wave of vomit surfacing. She saw it on my face and searched around for a garbage can, similar to the way I had the first time. She found one, but there wasn't time for me to get all of my bodily fluids into it. 

So I tried my best, but despite my best attempt to not throw up on his shoe yet another time, I failed. Miserably. I threw up on his shoe, again. I don't even think he tried to move this time. I don't think he saw it coming. Or maybe he did, and he has some sick and weird obsession with people puking on his shoes. But my money was on the former. If the first time wasn't horrifying enough, I was definitely never going to speak to him now. Or look at him. Or be in the same room as him. 

He tried to say something to me, but the nurse quickly shuffled me out of the small room back to my own room, and so thankfully, I had an excuse for ignoring him. 

***

The next time Harry and I crossed paths wouldn't be for weeks. I had told the charge nurse to do whatever she could to change my chemo schedule so I wouldn't have to see him, and she did just that. That's one of the good things about cancer: you can usually get what you want. I know that sounds selfish and shallow, but, being a dying 17 year old, I think I am entitled to that. I'll take what I can get. 

So my chemo schedule was moved from Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at noon to Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at three. The doctors figured shifting it a few hours wasn't going to cause any unalterable damage. 

Over the course of the weeks, my health sky rocketed, rapidly declined, and then increased at a steady level. I had trouble sleeping, so I developed a habit of pretending to sleep, but watching the hallways of the hospital instead. I watched Harry Styles walk by the room that inhabited the girl who threw up on his shoe (twice) twenty-seven times. Most of the time he walked alone, never once looking through the glass into my room, but focusing rather on his destination than his surroundings. That's another side effect of cancer: you focus on your destination, which is death, rather than on the things surrounding you while you are still alive. I've heard the doctors and nurses call that type of patient one who has lost the will to fight, but I prefer to think of it as one who has embraced their disease and is tired of fighting a losing battle. It is what it is. 

On the 23rd of June, 5 weeks after I left the contents of my stomach on Harry's shoe, I made the decision to go down to the hospital cafeteria for some food. 

As I stood in the line, trying to avoid the sympathetic and sad looks from the normal people in the room, I noticed him. He sat at a table by himself, engulfed in a book with a brown cover, scribbling furiously. He wore on his head a grey beanie that was simply to hide him, because 1.) it was the middle of summer and 2.) there was no hair left on him to tame. I knew the feeling well, but my cover of choice was my baseball cap. 

I found myself wondering what kind of hair he used to have on him, and if it would make him more or less beautiful, and if when he was cancer-free it would grow back the same. The only thing that brought me out of my own mind was the cashier asking for my three dollars and seven cents. I didn't bother to mumble an apology, because I really wasn't sorry for focusing on something other than reality, and I gave her the money and found a seat on the otherside of the cafeteria, across from Harry Styles. 

I watched him for weeks after that, scribbling in his brown book and drinking a juice box while a turkey sandwich sat on the table with him. He came down to the cafeteria everyday and bought the two items, never eating the sandwich. Just letting it sit there. I watched him from that day on, never saying a word to him, but just watching and wondering: at what he was writing in that book, at why he only drank apple juice in his juice box, at what his favorite book was, and at why he always bought that turkey sandwich, leaving it uneaten, only to be thrown in the trash can by a janitor moments after he left. 

Although I never intended to speak to him, what with the mortification of that day in the killing room, I did like watching him. Watching him somehow ended up being the brightness of my day. For that 30 minutes I sat in the cafeteria, I didn't have to think about reality. I didn't have to think about how my life was more than likely ending faster than I could count. All I had to think about was what I imagined Harry Styles to be like, indulging in the fantasy of him for 30 minutes a day.

On the eve of July 11th, as I sat across the room from Harry, nibbling slightly on the hamburger I had purchased from the food court, I noticed a change in him. He stopped writing with such ferocity. Instead, he wrote, took a sip from his juice, and took a bite of his sandwich. I stared at him from across the room, shocked that he had taken a bite. A small smile formed on his lips, and just after swallowing his bite, he glanced up at me, meeting my eyes for the first time ever. 

I would have never let it happen if I knew he was going to do it. I would have pretended to be engulfed in my burger, or pick at the mangy hospital gown that was permanently welded to my body. 

The glance lasted three seconds (I counted), until I peeled my eyes away faster than I could process what had happened. I immediately got up from my seat, and left the cafeteria through the side door, leaving behind my hamburger, my dignity, and Harry Styles.


	3. Stalking Doesn't Get the Guy, and Neither Does Fainting

After Harry's eyes had met mine in the cafeteria that night, I never went back. I couldn't bear it. I was now mortified for three separate things when it came to him, and I had never said one word to him: 1.) when I threw up on his shoe the first time, 2.) when I threw up on his shoe the second time, and 3.) when he caught me staring at him like a creepy cancer child in the cafeteria. 

I had come to the conclusion that the only thing in the world worse than having to continuously go through chemo was being continually embarrassed (against my consent) when it came to Harry Styles. Just thinking about it made me want to die. 

I stopped laying on the side of the bed that allowed me to watch the hallway of the hospital. I really didn't want to see Harry walk by. The last thing I needed was for him to think that not only was I stalking him while he wrote, I was stalking him as he innocently walked down the hall, too. God, I'm such a loser.

I was sitting in the hospital bed, getting closer to death every day, and I was worried about what Harry Styles thought of me. Talk about the epitome of a 17 year old girl: everything else except boys is irrelevant in life, even dying of cancer. 

Instead I spent my time laying on the other side of the hospital bed, silently still wondering what he was writing in the journal. Even if I could never look at him again, I could still see him in my mind. At least in there, I couldn't embarrass myself anymore than I already had. 

I found myself wondering time and time again what his favorite things were. What was his favorite color, his favorite baseball team?, did he even like baseball?, did he like to draw?, what was his favorite TV show?, favorite candy?

After a while, I developed so many questions on a boy I never intended to know, that I had to write them all down. I dedicated multiple pages in my diary to questions I had about Harry Styles. I titled the page: "Inquiries About A Boy Who I'll Never Speak To", and then in small print underneath, "inside the mind of a hormonal, cancerous teenager." 

Sometimes I could make myself laugh with my crude jokes about cancer. My dad, on the other hand, didn't find it so funny. But I didn't care. If I was on a time clock, I was going to have all the fun I wanted. he couldn't argue with that logic. 

Cancer bonus. Carrie: 1. Parents: 0. 

Anyway, about one week passed before I decided that I was bored of my hospital room and wanted to venture back down to the cafeteria. I tried to make it at a time when I didn't think he would be there, though. I really, really didn't want to embarrass myself for a fourth time. 

So I walked slowly around the cafeteria, and I'm sure I look extremely ridiculous, but nobody was allowed to say anything. You know, because of the cancer thing. 

I peeked around some corners and made sure he was nowhere in sight. When I deemed the coast clear, I got in line and bought some fruit, and, just because I was in a particularly good mood that day, a juicebox. I took my items and made my way to a booth, my drawing pad tucked underneath my arm. 

I set the fruit down and stuck the straw in the juicebox. I sat for not very long before I started to get tired and wanted to go back upstairs. Closing my drawing pad and gathering my trash, I took a deep breath to will myself to get up and walk. My body had been feeling more tired than usual lately, and just getting down to the cafeteria felt like climbing up Mount Everest. 

When I opened my eyes, I saw him standing in line at the cashier. The word shit escaped my lips and I took a deep breath in before standing up. I stood up and snuck a peek at him from under my baseball cap. To my surprise, and horror, Harry Styles was walking towards me. I mumbled more swear words under my breath and tried to turn and walk the other way. 

I walked as fast as my legs could take me, but it wasn't fast enough. I was almost in the clear and out of the cafeteria when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I stopped in my tracks and almost didn't turn around. If I had it in me to make a run for it, I swear I would have. But, cancer had literally wiped the energy out of me, and so it was all I could do to turn around and face my biggest nightmare. 

He stood tall and lanky, not dressed in a hospital gown like most patients were. He wore a pair of black sweatpants and a grey v-neck, wearing his grey beanie on his head as well. I noticed a familiar pad of paper in his hand and an abudance of curse words flowed through my head at one time. He must have seen me eyeing the drawing pad, because as I continued to stare at it, he lifted his hand to bring it closer to me. I peered up at him from under my cap, and he flashed me a small, dimpled smile. 

"You left this over there..." He said as he handed it to me. 

I wanted to thank him, or tell him my name, or say something to him instead of standing there looking like a moron, but the words that I wanted to say were all trapped in my throat. Everytime I wanted to say something, the words piled up behind each other, creating a bigger and bigger ball in my throat. 

I don't know if it was the metaphorical ball of words that were lodged in my throat that was making it hard to breathe, if it was the cancer trying to tell my body to stop working, or if it was just Harry Styles himself, but as I stood there and tried to reach my hand out to grasp my drawing pad he was handing me, I found myself stumbling forward. 

And no, not in the cute, awkward way that it happens in the movies, when the girl accidentally trips and the guy is there to catch her. I wasn't even moving. My feet were glued in place. I simply reached my hand out to grab the pad, and my equilibrium went out of whack. Except my feet of course. 

So he handed it to me, and I stumbled forward, but my feet didnt move. My upper body fell forward and my arms flapped at my sides trying to keep my balance. Since chemo had started, even the slightest touch bruised me. Falling onto the floor would definitely leave a mark. I found my balance again, and I could feel the flames ignite on my cheeks. Harry Styles stood in front of me still, with a crooked grin on his face. 

"Are you okay?" He asked me, and it gave me deja vu from the time I first threw up on his shoe. I think he maybe thought that I was just nervous because of him, which is kind of annoying. Like, he knew how cute he was, and he knew what he could do to people, and he thought it was amusing. But whatever.

I couldn't speak still, though. The ball of words in my throat was growing larger and larger and it felt like my throat was closing tighter with every passing second. I tried reaching for my pad again, but became painstakingly light headed. I reached forward, and when I tried to grab it, my entire body disintegrated like sand on to the floor. I think Harry tried to help me, but like I said, it wasn't like the movies, and I slipped through his grasp like water.

Before I could process what even had happened I knew I was being lifted up. By who, I had no idea. It could have been Harry, or it could have been a dragon fighting warlock with three heads and purple skin; it was all the same to me. I could only see swirls of the world around me as I tried to keep conscious. All the colors, all the shapes, all the sounds morphed together to make me feel like I was in some fucked up version of the Wizard of Oz. I swear I heard a musical number at one point. 

My body felt light as air and my mind felt as heavy as concrete as the world continued to move around me. I'm not even sure that it was the real world anymore. I may have been out of consciousness the entire time and the whole color-swirling, musical number image was just a pigment of my imagination in its best form. I couldn't feel my body but I could feel my mind. It was strange, if I'm being totally honest, but also sort of cool. Have you ever literally felt your mind before? LIke, you could feel it inside your head, weighing down your body because it's so heavy? I don't know if anybody has. But I did, and it was cool to be the only one I knew who had felt the actual weight of their brain. 

I fought to keep consciousness of what I was seeing, but after a while, even my mind grew tired of trying to keep up with the mash up it was seeing. The next time I was conscious was the fourth time my mortification had reached an all time high when it came to Harry Styles. 

I started just staring at the ceiling; I was trying to will myself to get the energy to turn my face. Opening my eyes was the most energy I could muster for about ten minutes. Or, what I had assumed was ten minutes. My perception of time was always being skewed one way or another. 

When I finally did turn my head, I was greeted by my dad, who was sitting in the chair next to me reading a copy of the latest issue of Sports Illustrated. I made a weird noise with my throat, which caused him to look up from his magazine and make eye contact with me. He smiled, the wrinkles by his eyes becoming even more prominent than normal. He was only 38. 

"Hey Car," he said staring at me. I blinked. "It's been three days."

I blinked again. "Are you thirsty?"

Two blinks signaled a no from me. 

"Hungry?"

Two more blinks. 

"Should I stop asking questions?" 

One blink later and he went back to his copy of Sports Illustrated. 

He was used to this routine by now. Well, I'm not sure if anybody (except the person who is being eaten alive by cancer) ever gets used to seeing someone they love in pain, but I'd like to think that at some point, you start to know what to expect. I know from experience that even then, watching them hurt is worse than death itself. 

My dad could be so strong, but everyday his wrinkles grew a little deeper and the color behind his eyes drained a little more. I knew better than to think he was ever okay, no matter how badly he wanted me to believe it. 

Just as I was about to close my eyes again, he looked up. "Oh, by the way," he set the copy down and leaned a little closer to me, planting a kiss on my forehead. "Your friend will be back soon."

I remember staring at him as he pulled away, engulfing himself in the magazine, and I remember staring at him hoping to God that my "friend" wasn't who I thought he was talking about.


	4. Who Knew One (Sort of) Conversation Could Change So Much?

I stared at Dad in horror (or what I had thought was a horrified expression), but his stance never altered. It's as if he was completely oblivious to the fact that he probably just ended my entire world. He said it had been three days, and I wasn't even sure if I had showered in those three days or not. And Harry was coming to see me. Well, who I thought was Harry.

I had to calm down. It took everything in me, and I hardly had enough energy to be awake as it was. I raked through my mind to try and think of any other friend who might be coming to visit me, but I had none. i had spent most of my teenage years in and out of hospitals, with a few months at a regular school in the past three years. i ahd never been around anybody long enough to really make friends. 

With my dad still being completely oblivious, I closed my eyes and rolled onto my back. Maybe if I stayed like this long enough, I would fall asleep and not have to deal with whatever would be waiting for me. That would be the best situation. I tried desperately to convince myself that I needed to fall back asleep. Fall asleep. Fall asleep. Fall. As. Leep. No matter how hard I willed slumber to come, it seemed to have escaped me. My body was fatigued but I had been asleep for three days, for Christ's Sake. I was all out of sleep for now. 

A small tap on the window of my room made my eyes shoot open. Somehow, the ceiling looked whiter and my heart was beating faster. I could feel my palms clamming up. I gripped the bed sheets with as much strength as I had in me, half to rid my palms of the sweat, and half to create an outlet for the amount of anxiety I was experiencing in that particular moment. It seemed absolutely ridiculous that my Dad still was oblivious to any of this. Men. 

Dad stood up, giving me a small smile as he went to greet the person outside of the room. 

"Nice to see you again," Dad said. I still didn't look at who was there. I was afraid that if I did, my worst nightmare would come true. And I couldn't face that. 

How stupid is that? I had been asleep for three days because I was dying, and yet, my worst nightmare coming true was to be confronted by a cute boy. In what messed up universe does that make any sense at all? But that's what I loved about him. Even though my universe didn't make sense, he made sense of it, and it was like I was seeing everything for the first time.

"Is the game still on?" Another male voice came and the faint familiarity of it sent my heart rate straight through the roof. I don't know if it registered or not on the heart rate monitor I was connected to. My ears were too busy buzzing and my vision too busy blurring to understand or comprehend anything else going on in the room. I hadn't even noticed the television had been on with some baseball game, though now the sound came buzzing through the ringing in my ears, mixing with the voices in my head and in the hospital room. 

"Sure is. Cubs are losing 5 to nothing. They suck this year," Dad mumbled under his breath. He used to be a sports announcer. A good one, too. But that was before. Before I got sick. Before Mom died. Before life happened. Now he just stuck to reading Sports Illustrated and making his own commentary on any sporting event he could get his eyes on. 

"Well, that's because the Red Sox are the greatest team in the nation, without a doubt." Harry said, and I could hear his voice getting closer as he entered farther into the room. The speed of my heart was directly connected to each footstep he took in my direction.

"Sure they are," Dad snorted. "Why is it again that their pitcher couldn't beat the second worst in the league?" He taunted. I don't even know what that meant. Baseball speak was not my forte. 

Harry let out a small laugh and then, before anything else could happen, before I could process anything else or try and slow my heart down at all, he was standing next to my bed, staring down at me with the dopiest grin I had ever seen.

"Hi." He smiled and turned to Dad. "How long...?"

"About twenty minutes ago," he replied coolly, taking his seat again in the chair next to me. I still didn't speak. I couldn't even smile. My insides were twisting in ways that should be illegal, and my brain was screaming things that my body couldn't register properly. 

Harry looked back down at me with his goofy grin still plastered on his face. "I don't think I've properly introduced myself. I'm Harry." He smiled at me even wider then, and I swear to whatever God I believed in that it was the most beautiful thing the world may had ever seen. If Leonardo da Vinci was still alive, I think he may have painted Harry Styles' smile instead of Mona Lisa. 

I just stared like the idiot that I am. 

His smile faded slightly and he looked back at Dad, who, I could see from the corner of my eye, was watching intently. 

"Sometimes she has a hard time talking just after she wakes up. Carrie usually blinks in response to yes or no questions. Right, Car?" 

I couldn't take my eyes off of Harry. I blinked once. 

"See?" Dad sounded almost as if he were showing off a daughter who won an award at school. "Once for yes, twice for no." 

Harry looked back at me then, an intense curiosity burning through his gaze and into mine. I had to look away for fear that my eyes might have melted right out of my head. I think he thought I was being rude, when really, I just couldn't hardly bear to look at him. Not because I loathed him or disliked him, but because just looking at him made me feel things that I'd never felt before, and never wanted to feel for anyone, and I had to stop them in their tracks. I had to shove those feelings straight back down to the depths of hell where they came from, for both of our sakes. 

Instead of backing off like a normal person would have, Harry leaned over the bed, on his tiptoes, I imagine, and put his face right in my line of sight again. Who does that? I couldn't help but smile - just slightly - and I know he saw, because he smiled, too, and removed his face from my view. 

I still thought I was going to throw up just from the sight of him. But, somehow, the way he spoke to Dad so candidly about sports, the casual way he introduced himself to me; it all felt normal. Not awkward, as it very well should have been - especially after me puking on him and fainting on him various times. It wasn't weird or awkward or even uncomfortable. It seemed like he belonged there. I don't know how he did that. 

"Do you remember fainting, Carrie?" Harry asked me. But I stared at the TV screen. I didn't want to look at him anymore or I might fall apart from the inside out. A moment of silence followed, and then another question. "Do you feel alright?"

I didn't answer again. 

I snuck a look at him from the corner of my eyes, and he was staring at the TV screen, tapping one finger on his chin as if thinking of a new question. His eyes lit up like a fire igniting behind them and he looked back down at me. I quickly looked away before he could see me. "Remember your drawing pad?"

Well, that got my attention.

I whipped my head, a little too quickly, becoming lightheaded as I stared at him staring at me. He looked amused. "I wanted to look in it.." He teased, and reached for something by my bed. In all my worst nightmares, the last thing I wanted was for him to ever touch my drawing pad. I never wanted him to look in it. Period. 

He pulled it up from the floor and almost opened it. My heart raced harder than ever before and a raspy thought escaped my tongue. "Don't." I choked out, my eyes pleading to him with words that I couldn't express. 

The smile faded from his face and the amusement was lost behind his eyes. He put the drawing pad down, and never touched it without permission again. 

"So you do have a voice," he smile, amused once again. I stared blankly and reached down for my drawing pad, wanting to hold it near me for comfort. I winced as I leaned down, the aches in my body becoming more powerful with each stretching inch I moved. I didn't want the pain to be clear on my face, but undoubtedly it was, as Harry reached down the remainder of the way for me and asked permission with his eyes to pick up the drawing pad. I stared incredulously, laying back down on my bed, granting him silent permission to pick it up. He handed it to me and I tucked it away under my arm, under my covers, and just the feel of the smooth cover against my skin calmed me down. He must have thought I was absolutely fucking mental. 

But he never led on that he thought I was crazy. He walked around the bed and took a seat in the other chair beside me, and i don't remember it being weird in anyway. Normally, a stranger walking into your room after a three day sleep would be startling, unsettling, unnerving. But Harry was none of those things. He had an aura about him that screamed charm and an elegant grace about him that never once made me question his intentions. He sat in the chair and didn't make me speak again after that. He sat and watched sports with Dad, both of them calling out names that I didn't know and positions and phrases that were foreign to me, but every so often he would sneak a glance in my direction.

I still couldn't speak to him, what could I say? "Sorry for throwing up on your shoes, and stalking you while you wrote, and fainting in front of you. Also, I'm not crazy, I just have this weird thing about speaking the first few hours after I wake up."

Hell, maybe I was crazy. But if I was crazy, what did it say about the boy who knew I was, and didn't mind?


End file.
